Chapter 4: The firing video
1200 Words
Adrian Vance did not do embarrassment.
He did not do panic. He did not do “oh no, I just made a terrible mistake in front of a live audience.”
He did efficiency. He did control. He did boardroom shutdowns and strategic pivots.
So when the producer for the charity gala told him, “You’re going to fire Zara live on camera for the segment,” he didn’t panic.
He just raised an eyebrow.
“Why?” he asked.
The producer blinked. “Because it’s dramatic. It’s real. It shows you’re not afraid to make hard calls. It’s content.”
Adrian stared at her.
“Content,” he repeated.
“Yes,” the producer said. “Like, ‘oops, I had to fire someone because they were not meeting expectations.’ People love that. Real stakes. Real consequences. It’s raw.”
Adrian’s stomach did a small, quiet flip.
He didn’t know what to do with that feeling. He kept it locked in a drawer labeled Future Problem.
“Fine,” he said. “But I’m not going to be cruel about it. I’ll keep it professional.”
“Perfect,” the producer said, already typing away on her tablet. “We’ll frame it as ‘the tough leader making the hard choice.’ We’ll have a camera right in your face. You’ll look stern but fair. You’ll be heroic.”
Adrian didn’t feel heroic.
He felt like he’d just agreed to surgery without anesthesia.
But he nodded anyway.
He was Adrian Vance. He did not back down from anything.
Even if that thing was himself.
—
Zara Reed found out about the firing two minutes before it happened.
She was sitting in the conference room, sipping lukewarm water from a paper cup, listening to a man named Greg from HR explain why she should be “grateful for the opportunity” to work at Apex Innovations, even though she’d been there for three years and never once been called “grateful.”
“Ms. Reed,” Greg said, “Mr. Vance would like to speak with you live, in the main office. He has an announcement.”
Zara’s stomach dropped.
“An announcement,” she said. “Like a promotion?”
Greg’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Like a meeting.”
She stood up. “Great. I love meetings.”
She followed Greg down the hallway, past glass walls and people who looked like they hadn’t slept in three days. The hallway was quiet. Too quiet.
Then she heard it.
A camera shutter.
A crowd.
A voice saying, “Okay, we’re rolling in ten.”
Zara stopped. “What’s going on?”
Greg didn’t stop walking. “You’ll see.”
She followed him into the main office.
The room was full of people. Cameras. Lights. A host with a blinding smile. A producer with a clipboard. A mikrophone on a stand.
And Adrian Vance.
He was standing in the center, looking like he’d been styled for a magazine cover.
He looked at Zara.
His eyes were cold.
His face was blank.
His hands were in his pockets.
And he looked like he was about to kill someone.
“Zara,” he said. “Thanks for coming.”
She forced a smile. “Of course. I love being called into the lion’s den.”
The host stepped forward. “And here she is, ladies and gentlemen, Zara Reed, the personal assistant who’s been with Apex Innovations for three years!”
The crowd clapped. Weakly.
Zara forced a wave. “Hi.”
The host turned to Adrian. “And now, Mr. Vance, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.”
Adrian took a breath.
He looked at Zara.
He looked at the camera.
He looked at the producer, who gave him a thumbs-up.
“Zara,” Adrian said, his voice flat. “I’m firing you.”
The room went silent.
Zara blinked. “What?”
“You’re fired,” Adrian said. “Effective immediately. Your performance has not met expectations. You’ve been disruptive. Unprofessional. You question authority. You undermine company culture.”
Zara’s heart hammered.
This was a joke. It had to be a joke.
This was a segment. A setup. A prank.
But Adrian’s face didn’t change.
He didn’t even blink.
She looked at the camera.
The camera was right in her face.
She looked at the crowd.
They were watching.
She looked at Adrian.
He was not laughing.
He was not smiling.
He was just… watching.
“Wait,” she said. “You’re firing me? Live? On camera?”
“Yes,” Adrian said. “That’s right.”
She laughed. It was a sharp, jagged sound.
“You’re kidding,” she said. “You’re actually doing this.”
“I’m not playing,” Adrian said.
Zara’s hands shook.
She took a step forward.
“Do you have any idea what you just did?” she asked.
“Probably not,” Adrian said. “But I did it anyway.”
Zara looked at the camera.
She looked at Adrian.
She looked at the producer, who was grinning like this was the best thing she’d ever seen.
She looked back at Adrian.
“You think this is a story,” she said. “You think this is content.”
Adrian’s jaw tightened.
“I think it’s necessary,” he said.
“No,” Zara said. “You think it’s easy.”
She took another step.
“You think you can just fire me like I’m a spreadsheet. Like I’m a line item. Like I’m a mistake you can delete.”
Her voice was shaking, but she kept going.
“You think you can fire me and it won’t matter. You think it won’t affect my life. My rent. My family. My dignity.”
Adrian’s eyes flickered.
Just for a second.
Just for a heartbeat.
But it was enough.
Zara saw it.
She saw the c***k.
She saw the man behind the mask.
She leaned in.
“You think you can’t love your way out of a spreadsheet,” she said. “But you’re wrong. You can’t love at all.”
The room went silent.
The camera kept rolling.
Adrian stared at her.
The producer whispered, “We’re live. This is gold.”
Zara looked at the camera.
She looked at Adrian.
She smiled.
It wasn’t a nice smile.
It was the smile of someone who had just realized she had nothing left to lose.
“Good luck with that, Adrian,” she said. “Hope the spreadsheet can hug you back.”
She turned.
She walked out.
The camera followed her.
The crowd gasped.
The producer screamed, “Cut! Cut! We’re live! We’re live!”
Adrian stood there, alone.
The room was silent.
He looked at the camera.
He looked at the producer.
He looked at his hands.
He felt something he hadn’t felt before.
He felt exposed.
He felt naked.
He felt seen.
And he hated it.
He hated it so much that he wanted to delete the footage.
He wanted to rewind the world.
He wanted to take it back.
But he couldn’t.
The footage was already out.
The video was already viral.
And Zara Reed was already gone.
—
- Writer
